the roaring wind whistles a polar me,
opposing freely,
a hushful respite,
inside today,
silent me.

sitting in dreams,
stuck in sleeping bags,
the night before,
before the morning snagged,
my lucid want,
my lucid haunt.

outside, the wind and sun,
blow fiercely through,
the dead dried leaves,
the dusty dung,
brown, unsung,
chaos flying,
above the roof,
around the fence,
at pasture’s hooves,
one last breath spent.

again here lie,
the dreams that drift,
the dreams that die,
sounding out February's cry,
singing her last goodbye.

while the trance settles,
and untangles,
and I, sitting quiet,
witnessing the bendy brambles.

~Lana Maree Haas

Marigold Sun radiates her Universal blessings , setting tin alight and warming our Dawn landscape ..What magnetism pulls the seedling to the sky ? What draw upon life's current will brighten my world with morning light ?

Vivid Cottonwood images lay across my natural muse ...
Lake dancers sway in the shadows , Georgia red clay
bears earthen testament to her aquatic wonders , teeming along
every living shoreline ..
A prayer before bucolic entities , Bream , Shellcracker and Gopher tortoise , Whitetail Doe and Cottontail rabbit ...
To Bear Creek , cascading mother of Port Lake , to deep western forest as far as my eyes can bear witness ...
The deep blue eyes of my creator , juniper green cover and songbird filled canopy , to the sweet ambrosia of native grasses singing in the afternoon winds ...

On days like this
cool, with little winds
desert birds forage for sticks
they build nests perched in cactus
some build green in palo verde trees
always I think of baby birds in spring
hatchlings, the fledglings that fly
I travel far beyond the noise of towns
watch the movement of cooling clouds
the roundness of rain upon the ground
the grey banked scurrilous skies
of hurried birds, their silhouettes before a storm
daisies that close, cold amid the stones
beneath where snakes and lizards go
slither and crawl in this landscape of saguaros
and I, ever tethered can only dream to fly.

The wind shuffles the long grass
And the broad green reeds
Shifting and rattling
By the rippling black water
Chuckling water fowl splash
Swans and cygnets hurry past
And the weather is on the turn
It's time to be heading home

The last of the daylight creatures
And the very first of those of the night
Are sharing this half-way hour
The sky restlessly moves and changes
And bruised clouds rush over head
Like the rubbed eye-lids of a child
A weary teary child
Going home and ready for bed

The slack and glossy water
Laps at the stone beneath bridges
Echoing with the ghosts of barges
And spits of rain flick the air
Studs of cold hitting the face
Turning a collar to the cheek
And urging aching feet
Home-fire yearning me home

                               By Phil Roberts

A lump of eminence
Swells in her throat,
But she swallows it down
Flashing a shiny, humble smile.
This wild dandelion grows in the sun
and dances to the beat of the wind,
Scattering seeds of peace
And songs of love
In every corner of the world.
She floats among the stars
Crashing perfectly into
Every illustrious constellation.
As she shakes the stardust from her hair
And dusts her glitter-speckled shoulders,
She reaps the benefit
Of her selfless, meaningful offerings.

I called to you 
softly when I 
was young; my
voice bounced off 
the bricks of a 
suburban slum,
sauntered down 
side streets and 
stirred piles of 
leaves, then snagged 
in the branches till 
the wind tore it free 

to collapse at your 
window like a 
weary songbird
that had been 
singing for decades 
and finally, you heard.

Soon the Dogwoods will bloom, and
bring one last gasp;
A eulogy for winter-
a final little bit of cold remembrance
for our unwashed faces.

Summer is for a different song. Brand new wrongs,
slick fingers and
a sunnier side of sin. The good kind.
Twixt those sweaty inner thighs
hides a secret worth savoring; a secret worth harboring.
Salvation is warm and...
I digress.

In the interim lies spring,
when we debate the merits of
crucifixion and/or fertility.
Around here, crucifixion wins since
we love a good ******
more than a good ****.
Who am I to argue?

So we wait for
something different.
Breath bated -
anxiously anticipating change
with a hitch in our collective chest.

That change will come but
not before the blackberries have had their say.